My Prize
by DrWorm
Summary: This ain't your typical "Cats" or "Rent" fiction. A little vignette based on the play "Assassins". Slash, also known as focusing on homosexual relationships. How the heck did I manage this?


Notes: Someone needs to get my brain outta the bunny crack and back into the real world. -___-;; I'm unsure what, exactly, possessed me to write this. But it's here. 

"Assassins" is a musical play by Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman. While John Hinkley Jr. and Leon Czolgosz (pronounce: Chol-gosh) are/were real people, this is not meant to imply that they ever had a relationship (How could they? Czolgosz died in 1901). In "Assassins" all the characters operate within a state of limbo, remaining at the age they were when the assassination/attempt was performed (which, for many, was the same age at which they died). Thus, characters from different times can interact with each other like such. Hinkley attempted to assassinate President Reagan and Czolgosz assassinated President William McKinley (and was executed). Czolgosz was the son of Polish immigrants, thus he had a strong accent (although I think I went a little overboard with that…) _Matka_ is Polish for "mother". Physical descriptions are based primarily off of the production I saw, not historical records or photographs (although they tried hard to be accurate). 

I think that's all you need to know at this point.

My Prize

Leon Czolgosz looked down at the gun in his hand and turned it over and over between his fingers, holding it with gentle reverence. "All you have to do is move your little finger," he whispered and smiled without humor. 

Behind him there came the sound of clumsy movement as someone sat on the bench beside him. "Just a single little finger can change the world," a soft voice intoned near his ear. When Czolgosz turned around, slightly alarmed, he found himself staring into the sweet, sheepish face of John Hinkley. The small man pushed his large glasses back up onto his face and gave Leon a little smile. "Sorry. Did I startle you?"

"No. Not startle." Leon lied and gave John a steely look. "Something you want?"

John beamed and petted his own firearm, which he held in his smallish hands. "Just to apologize, I guess. For… Well, just in case I made you mad…"

"Mad?" Leon scowled down at his pistol. "Not mad. Should I be?"

"Well… I thought you were. When I… knocked over the bottle." Hinkley gripped his gun a fraction tighter. "I swear I didn't know, I didn't know about everything, and I didn't _mean_ to knock it over, it was an accident-"

"Not mad." Leon cleared his throat and slowly raised his gun to point at nothingness. "Not mad at you." He aimed carefully into the darkness.

"Then… who are you mad at?" John coughed nervously. "If you are mad at someone, which you don't have to be-"

"Mad at the world." Czolgosz tipped his head slightly to the side and snuck a look at Hinkley. "Mad at the rich who have all they want at their fingertips while poor suffer." He shrugged abruptly and lowered his gun. "Is why I kill McKinley."

"Oh."

"Why do you kill?" Leon asked, looking the mousey man over. His eyes rested longest on Hinkley's hands, small and pale, and on his wrists, which disappeared into an oversize Army surplus jacket. "You mad?"

"No," John shook his head. "No, I killed him… _tried_ to kill him… for Jodie."

"Jodie," Leon wrapped his tongue around the unfamiliar name. "Jodie is your… lover?"

"I wish." John sighed and stared at his weapon for a moment, admiring the details of the barrel and of the handle and trigger. "I thought I'd kill him and then… she'd notice me. And see what I'd do for her…"

Leon nodded. "I think that too. I love Emma; she don't love me. But she want McKinley dead as much as I do. I think I kill him and she love me. Maybe." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I do it for Emma. I do it for the workers. I done my duty." He laid his head back on the edge of the hard, wooden bench. In this new position, John was able to get a better look at the other man's young, sad features and the fine locks of blonde-brown hair that were almost always hidden by the shadow of his cap. 

"Did she-?"

"No." Czolgosz cut John off before the question even left his tongue. "She don't love me. She never love me."

"Then she's an idiot," John Hinkley said with more conviction than he usually possessed. Czolgosz opened his eyes and flashed a look of surprise at John; encouraged, John put what he hoped was a friendly hand on Leon's shoulder. 

Eyes snapping open, Leon turned to look at John. Timid, wallflower-ish John Hinkley, who was suddenly leaning in strangely close and touching his shoulder. Leon blinked. Few people willingly touched him anymore, seeing him as a poor and dirty factory worker. The voluntary contact with another person felt strange and foreign to him.

"Did this hurt?" John asked, trailing one finger down Leon's temple, tracing the line of a thin, white scar. "It looks like it hurt." His warm breath rebounded off of Leon's skin, and, in embarrassment, the laborer turned his head the side.

"Yes. It hurt very much." Czolgosz smiled without humor. "Unless you like feeling of glass in your skin."

"It must have been awful," John murmured. He turned his attention to Leon's exposed wrist, upon which a wide and ugly scar was visible. "Did this come from the glass factory too?"

Leon glanced absently down at where John was indicating. "Yes. It hurt even more." John's fingers had made their way down to his wrist, where he feeling the smooth bump of healed flesh. 

"Why did you keep working there… if you kept getting hurt?" The young man's eyes were clouded with confusion behind his large spectacles. "Couldn't you find another job?"

"What other job is there for son of immigrants with no training?" Leon shrugged. "There aren't many places for those like me."

John stared at Leon's wrist for another moment, gently studying it. Then, to Leon's bemusement, he lifted the extremity to his lips and pressed a fleeting kiss onto the injured skin. 

"What was that for?" John stared into space for a moment, lost in thought.

"I'm… not sure. My mother always… y'know… kissed it to make it feel better." He looked back to Leon. "Does it still hurt?"

"It may itch, sometime." He removed his cap to reveal his delicate hair and features; they seemed unsuited for his profession. With a sigh, he shot a calculating look at John. "It still hurt you?"

"What?"

"Your Jodie. She still hurt you?" Leon's tone was calm, controlled, almost conversational. He leaned in closer; the sudden shift in position made John gulp in a great breath of air.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, she… hurts sometimes, I guess." He avoided Leon's eyes as he admitted the truth to himself. "She hurts all the time."

Leon's eyes almost seemed to gleam and sparkle in the low light; his hands wound possessively around the handle of his gun. "And your _matka _would always… kiss it? To make it feel better?" John nodded. 

In a blurred swoop of motion, Leon pulled John closer and pressed their lips together. John's immediate instinct was to panic and to pull away from the violent affection, but as soon as he began to squirm he felt something cold and solid pressed beneath his chin. Leon's pistol was aimed to shoot him if he resisted. John felt his hands begin to shake and his heart beat faster. Still, he forced himself to relax against the other man to preserve his own life. 

Yet he found that the feeling wasn't as bad as he'd feared it might be. It wasn't like kissing a women and it certainly wasn't how he'd imagined kissing Jodie would be. It was harsher and rougher; after a moment, John felt his lips being pushed apart by Leon's insistent tongue. After a few moments of slippery heat, he found himself actually enjoying the sensations and, to Leon's surprise, began to kiss the other man back. He was hesitant at first, but as his confidence grew he became more assertive. Soon the young man was pawing impatiently at Leon's chest, trying to move beneath his heavy jacket. So dramatic was this change that Leon pulled back in surprise, breaking their kiss. John was panting slightly, his glasses lightly fogged. Leon smiled. 

"Girls ever do that with you?" Czolgosz's face was smug and John found that vaguely annoying.

"Once… or twice," he snapped. "But… never quite like that," he admitted after a moment of Leon's skeptical scrutiny.

"Men can give men what they want," Leon nodded, his eyes clouded. "You'll see. Women can not understand." He tapped John's chin, gently and almost condescendingly. "I have been with many, many whores. Stupid creatures. Many, many disgusting women. But men's kisses are always sweeter." He stood, a dreamy smile on his face, and began to wrap his handkerchief around his hand and his gun. The way he wrapped it looked suspiciously as if he'd hurt his hand; the gun was no longer visible.

"Where are you going?" The question was plain, but Leon didn't answer. "Off to collect your prize, I guess," John continued bitterly.

"No," Leon whispered, finally looking back down at Hinkley. "No. My prize is right here." He turned on his heel and strode into the inky darkness; John watched him go, his confusion mounting… until he heard one shot.

And then another.

He never saw Leon Czolgosz again.


End file.
